


It's Never Going to Stop, Is It?

by Quipplepunk



Series: Sirius Black [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, Needles, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, sitting on a roof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quipplepunk/pseuds/Quipplepunk
Summary: Sirius has run away from his parents' house and is living with the Potters. Panic attacks, flashbacks, and self-harm are all parts of Sirius adjusting to his new normal.
Relationships: Sirius Black & James Potter
Series: Sirius Black [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709893
Kudos: 38





	It's Never Going to Stop, Is It?

Sirius has his arms wrapped around himself, knees drawn up to his chest. He is looking up into the cloud covered night sky, scratching absentmindedly at his arm. The mercury light in the yard casts a pale glow on the roof. Sirius sits just outside of its reach. 

“Sirius?” James sticks his head out of the open window. 

“Hmm?” Sirius turns his head to James. 

“You doing ok?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’ve been out here awhile. Why don’t you come in and watch TV with me?” 

“I, uh,” Sirius takes a slow, deep breath and looks back up into the murky, dreary sky. “I still feel a little, uh, claustrophobic. I just need to sit out here for a while longer.” 

“Want me to sit with you?” 

Sirius shrugs and says, “Whatever suits your fancy.” 

James crawls out onto the roof and leans against the house next to Sirius. “Want to talk about anything?” 

“Nah.” Sirius shrugs and scratches his arm harder. After a few long moments, he begins to rock side to side. The movement is small but persistent. Sirius’s voice breaks the thick silence, “It’s never going to stop, is it?” 

“What won’t stop?” James asks. 

“Everything. Anything. I don’t know.” Sirius releases his grip on his legs and sprawls out dramatically. He is split down the middle by the light from the yard; one side is illuminated while the other hides in the shadows. 

James looks around lazily and rubs the back of his neck. “Everything comes to an end eventually, right?” 

Sirius smirks and huffs out a half laugh. He sits up and picks at a cluster of dried twigs and leaves that had caught on the roof. As he speaks, he snaps off bits of the twigs and throws them as hard and as far as he can. “Everything comes to an end eventually. And everything sucks. And every time something ends, there’s new shit that sucks just as much or more. And then I just wait for the new shit to end. Only it doesn’t. Or it does, but it’s replaced by newer shit that sucks even more.” 

James squints and holds his hand up in front of his face. “Would you stop throwing that? It keeps blowing back in my eyes.” 

“Sorry,” Sirius says as he flicks the remainder of the twigs off the roof. They sit in silence. The breeze picks up and the air chills. Feeling a few small drops of rain on his bare arms, Sirius gathers himself with a deep breath and a stretch. “Let’s go in. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” James says, standing and brushing off his pants before climbing through the window into the house. Sirius follows. James asks, “TV? Or maybe bed?” 

“Bed for me. Merlin, I feel like I’m water-logged, but like, without the fun of swimming.” 

“Yeesh, that’s no good. Sorry you feel so off tonight.” 

“Mneh. It’s whatever. Now get outta my bedroom and stop worrying about me,” Sirius says lightly, giving James a soft push on the shoulder. 

James chuckles and says, “Yeah, yeah. Night, Padfoot.” 

“Night, dearest Jamesy,” Sirius sings as he shuts the door behind James. Sirius turns and surveys his room. The light from the yard is shining through his window. He takes another long look at the sprinkling sky before closing the curtains. 

Sirius stands in front of the covered window waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. His breathing is shallow. The air feels heavy to him. He plops down on the end of the bed and roughly rubs his face and his head for a moment. He shakes out his hands and whips his head from side to side. Nothing seems to rid him of the crushing, suffocating feeling that envelops him. 

Sirius flops back onto the bed. “Alright, that’s it,” he says aloud to himself. “This is stupid. Just, just, just go to bed, you big dummy.” He scoots and crawls into place and under the covers. He flops and flips around on the mattress, never holding still for more than a few seconds at a time. Sirius flings the blankets off of himself, then struggles to cover up again only moments later. He grunts and sits upright quickly. “This is fucking ridiculous,” he grumbles to himself. 

Sirius hops out of bed and paces around in his room, talking to himself very quietly. “Just relax. You’re fine. It’s fine. Relax. You’re fi- No, I’m fine. Me. I’m myself and I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s ok. You’re ok. You’re ok. You’re ok. No – I’m me. I’m ok. I’m ok. Everything is fine. Just calm down.” 

Sirius growls at himself and pulls hard on his hair. He drops to his knees, sitting back on his feet and hugging his arms around his chest. “Deep breaths. You’re ok.” He begins to rock side to side. “You’re ok. You’re ok. You’re ok.” He squeezes his eyes shut and rocks a little harder. “Deep breaths. Ok? Ok. One, two, three. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. One, two, three – ugh, this isn’t working!” 

He curls in on himself. In a little ball on the floor, he begins to cry softly. He lays there awhile, his mind flashing thoughts and images and memories and anxieties. “Oh, fuck it,” he says, unwinding himself. He lifts up his mattress and pulls out a small plastic baggie. He empties the bag onto the bed: individually wrapped alcohol wipes, gauze, medical tape, a screw, a packet of sewing needles, and a thin razor that has some rust on it. 

He pulls one needle out of the packet and rips open an alcohol wipe. He cleans off the needle and a bare spot on his leg, under his boxers. He stops. He stares. “I don’t have to do this,” he thinks. He takes a shaky breath and begins rocking again, voices from his past start echoing in his head. “No, no, no. Stay out of my head!” 

He stabs the needle into his thigh. It’s not too deep, just the tip. He raises the needle and waits. Seeping to the surface was the smallest bit of blood, so small that it would be hardly noticeable if you didn’t know where to look. Sirius’s shoulders relax. He holds the alcohol wipe to the pin prick. 

“Good. Better,” he whispers to himself, nodding. He leans back against the side of the bed. Suddenly, a wave of choking and smothering panic washes over him. Tears well up and flow down his cheeks. “What the fuck?” he says, wiping his tears on his bare arm. He rocks himself again. 

“You don’t have to do this. You’re going to be ok. You’re ok. … No, I’m not. I’m not ok.” Sirius jabs his leg over and over again, as if he’s tapping a pen on a desk at school. 

His leg jumps and he stops stabbing his thigh. Droplets of blood litter his leg. Only one or two let out enough blood to trickle down his leg just a bit. Watching the blood makes Sirius sick to his stomach. He sets to work cleaning up the blood with the alcohol wipe, though it’s dry now. When most of the blood is gone and most of the pin pricks clotted, he opens another alcohol wipe and runs over the area again. It stings. Sirius relaxes into it, breathing deeply and calmly. 

Tossing away the bloodied wipes and the needle, he thinks, “Why did I do that? Merlin, I’m such a dumbass.” 

He flops down onto his bed, finally able to hold still, finally feeling the invisible suffocating force around him subside, finally breathing without fighting for every bit of oxygen.


End file.
